


Dark Titans: Love The Bomb

by Nightwing1993



Category: Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Justice Society of America (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 18:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19215316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightwing1993/pseuds/Nightwing1993
Summary: A Vision. A Coyote. A Bomb. A Bow and Arrow. Following the events of "Nightwing: Sins Of The Fathers" Roy Harper travels to Las Vegas after being compelled by a vision from Doctor Fate's helmet. (Contains minor spoilers for "Sins Of The Fathers")





	Dark Titans: Love The Bomb

The last sliver of sunlight had disappeared over the horizon hours ago, a cool breeze following in its wake — a wind that carried itself across the valleys and plains of the desert, all the way to the shining jewel of a city far in the distance.

The light of that city was all that guided the old Lincoln sedan as it rumbled slowly along the worn road. Its headlamps were conspicuously turned off.

A coyote pranced by, tail dancing behind it - the critter was maintaining the same speed as the car, its curiosity piqued by the squeak of the rolling wheels. The animal hopped along as the sedan took a sudden but slow left turn off the road and on to the plains, following a seemingly invisible path around the shrubs and plants.

Coming to a halt, the car was still for a few moments, the Coyote watching curiously from a distance. The driver's door opened, followed by the front passenger door.

Silhouettes of two men crept out and around to the back of the car. One of the men was very tall, with a strong barrel chest and arms that looked more like thighs. The other was also tall but not quite matching the height of his companion, his frame was slender and his face sunken as though there wasn't a single ounce of fat or muscle on his bones - just a frame for his grey skin.

The eerie silence of the night was broken by the larger of the two men, who slammed his fist down on the trunk of the vehicle, before yanking it open sharply, startling the canine observer.

Instead of making the sensible choice and fleeing the scene, the Coyote, something inside of it overriding its instincts for self-preservation, crept vigilantly closer to the vehicle.

The larger of the two men leaned into the trunk and grasped for something out of the Coyote's eye-line. With a heave, the big man lifted a sizeable wriggling object from the open trunk and dropped it carelessly on the ground, giving it an encouraging kick.

The light of the moon revealed the writhing husk to be a grown man gagged and bound by his hands and feet. The prisoner was battle-worn and unkempt, although it wasn't apparent as to whether this was the fault of his captors or an intentional decision on the man's part.

" _Careful_ ," Said the smaller man, "We were explicitly instructed not to make a mess."

"What the boss doesn't know can't hurt him," The larger man responded, cracking his knuckles with glee.

"There's nothing that our Lord does not know; you'd do well to learn that," The smaller man stated, waving a finger of warning.

Before the larger man could speak again, the captive on the ground growled incomprehensibly from behind the piece of cloth tied around his mouth.

Lurching down to look his prisoner in the eye the large man said in a mocking tone, "Can't hear you, Johnny boy, speak up!"

"Silas, if you'd be so kind as to remove the gag..." The smaller man hissed impatiently, his gaunt face reflected harshly in the pale light.

"Right away, Master Amon," Silas said with a sarcastic nod. Despite his reluctance, Silas did as he was told and tore the gag aggressively off the prisoner's head.

"You were saying?" Amon asked, gesturing to the now un-gagged 'Johnny Boy' on the ground, who subsequently shuffled to a seating position.

"I was saying," John began, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip, "Your boss doesn't see everything, or I wouldn't have needed to pay him a visit."

Amon sighed and rolled his eyes, "The last time you intruded upon our affairs, Mr Constantine, you caused significant damage to my employer's property. It was understood that you only escaped a more severe punishment on the proviso that you never enter the city of Las Vegas ever again. On pain of death."

"Exactly the point I was trying to make before you gagged me. I wouldn't be back here unless I had a good reason, would I?" Constantine said.

"Motives aside, you broke an agreement with my employer. It is fortunate for you that this infraction occurred when he was in one of his rarely forgiving moods, so rest assured, you will not die tonight. Not by our hand at least," Amon waved his hand, a gesture which Silas understood to mean 'untie him', which he proceeded to do.

Constantine unceremoniously got to his feet and yawned loudly, stretching his arms and cracking his back. He then straightened his red tie before brushing some of the dirt from his clothes and looking back at Amon.

" _However_..." Amon continued, nodding to Silas.

Giving him no time to react, Silas sharply grabbed Constantine's left arm and twisted it up his back, causing him to wince. Composing himself slightly, John smiled in an attempt to appear in control.

Amon nodded again. A crack that would have been inaudible on a night less quiet than this one ricocheted through the darkness as Silas snapped Constantine's index finger. The Coyote observer shuddered but stayed rooted to the spot, watching the events unfold.

Amon grimaced to reveal a pearly set of white teeth which horrifically contrasted his grey skin, "I think we understand each other, Mr Constantine."

"Aye," Constantine replied through gritted teeth, cradling his broken fingers.

"Good," Amon replied. Signalling to Silas, the two of them climbed back into the car and began to drive away.

"Oi! What about me coat?" Constantine shouted, attempting to give chase but stumbling over into the dirt almost immediately.

The old Lincoln sedan stopped as it turned back out on to the road. Constantine pulled himself up and ran toward the parked car. A bundled up brown coat flew out of the passenger side window, floating down and draping itself over a shrub. Wheels spinning in the dirt, the vehicle sped off and disappeared from view.

"Great, what the bloody hell do I do now?" John said to himself, leaning over the prickly shrub and trying to pull his coat from it.

"Well," Said a voice with a distinctive kiwi accent from behind him, "We should start by looking for somewhere to sleep."

Turning around sharply, John saw nothing; there was no one there.

"Down here, genius," Said the voice.

Constantine slowly looked down and saw at his feet, a small Coyote, looking up into his eyes. The man tilted his head, curiously, "What are you supposed to be then? My spirit animal?"

John's eyes widened as the Coyote began to speak, "Don't be stupid, I'm a traveller like you."

"Coyotes are native to North America if I'm not mistaken, so why do you sound like you're from Australia?" John asked.

"That's what you're concerned about? Not the fact that I'm able to speak at all?" The Coyote laughed.

"Nah, I fight demons for a living mate, talking dogs are a nice change of pace if I'm honest," Constantine said with a chuckle, throwing his coat over his shoulder, "Plus, I've taken quite a blow to the head - so you're probably just a figment of my imagination. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure this happened to Homer Simpson."

The Coyote laughed again, "I think you're right! But I'm not in your head, and you're not Homer Simpson. My name is Hugh Dawkins, and I think I was sent here to save your life."

* * *

Dawn broke early, and a red El Camino kicked up dust as it sped down the empty desert road. The driver sang loudly to the only CD he had brought with him when he left Gotham City, an obscure album by a local band which he hadn't liked when he set off - but had grown on him on repeat listenings.

Roy Harper nodded his head up and down to the rhythm of the guitar, stuffing Doritos in his mouth and enjoying the open road. His stay in Gotham had been a wild one, but he was ready for a change of scenery, if he was honest with himself, he had a problem with staying in one place for too long.

Roy grew up in Star City, in an area known as the Glades, which was best categorised as the bad part of town. Following in his mother's footsteps, Roy became addicted to heroin at fourteen and only managed to kick the habit a year later because of his mother's death by overdose.

Looking for an outlet for his rage and determination to do something worthwhile in honour of his mother, Roy became obsessed with the local vigilante the Green Arrow. In an attempt to emulate his hero, he donned a red hood and stole a bow and arrows from a local sporting goods store.

Roy quickly discovered that the longbow he'd stolen wasn't ideal for crimefighting, the cumbersome object eventually caused him to be beaten to a pulp by a group of muggers he was trying to stop because he couldn't load it in time. Roy awoke after the incident in the Green Arrow's Lair, where it turned out, the Arrow had been watching his movements for some time and offered to train him.

The rest was history. Speedy was born, a nickname that Roy hated with a passion, quickly becoming the Red Arrow, and then changing his name to Arsenal when he joined the Titans team. Since then he'd switched between Red Arrow and Arsenal so often that no one ever really knew what to call him. Roy cited this as the reason he wasn't as notorious or well known as the Green Arrow.

Roy had recently spent some time in Gotham City with his friend Dick Grayson. While there, he discovered the helmet of a long-forgotten member of the Justice Society of America - Doctor Fate. The helmet gave Roy a confusing vision, which compelled him to ignore the orders of his mentor, Oliver, and go to Las Vegas.

THUD!

The brakes screeched, Roy spat Doritos all over the place, pulled from his thoughts of visions and thrown back into the present as a figure tumbled over the hood and windshield of his car and landed lifelessly on the road behind it.

"Oh, shit!" He said, frantically scrambling out of the car.

Curled up unconscious on the ground was a man in a white shirt with a red tie, holding a dirty brown coat in his inanimate hands. The man looked like he'd been beaten up, Roy thought, if he took him to a hospital, he'd probably end up getting arrested.

The man suddenly gasped for breath and grabbed Roy by the collar, "The talking dog, the bloody talking dog, get the talking dog."

Before Roy could respond, the man was unconscious again.

Not knowing what else to do, Roy picked up the phone, "Dinah, you there?" He said.

The voice of Dinah Lance, aka Black Canary, sounded at the other end of the phone, "Roy, where are you? Ollie was expecting you back."

"I'm just outside Vegas; I need your help."

* * *

The front door was a little stiff, it had to be something to do with the foundations of the house sinking, but it meant that Ted had to heave the door upwards and pull with all his might to get out of his home to take out the trash. He was a strong guy, it wasn't too much of a problem, or it wouldn't have been if during the pull the trash bag hadn't split and scattered week-old baked beans all over the rug.

Naturally, he yelled to the sky, "God damn it!"

"What is it, honey?" Came Gloria's voice from the kitchen, she was making waffles for her ungrateful kid who still hadn't come home yet.

"Nothing, babe, I'll clean it up," Ted sighed, cursing under his breath and placing the dripping bag on the front porch as he stormed into the pantry and grabbed a fresh trash bag.

Gloria liked to keep things clean around the house, which on the surface might have seemed like a good thing, but it also meant that she was constantly rearranging furniture and altering where she kept things. Trash bags once lived in the second drawer down on the left side as you walked in, today though they'd found a new home.

"Glore," Ted called, hiding his rising fury under a faux-mellow tone, "Where are the trash bags?"

"That was the last one, honey, I left you a note on the fridge," Gloria replied, utterly oblivious to the gravity of the situation.

A note on the fridge, of course, there was a note on the refrigerator, Ted thought. He'd been working from home for a month after that incident with Jeff from accounting, and Gloria had been acting as though because he was at home, she could just leave lists of menial tasks on the refrigerator. Ted couldn't complete most of them because, as he'd explained only a few thousand times, he had to clock in on his computer at 9am and only got a half hour for lunch.

Back in the hall, Ted caught his reflection and stopped for a moment, watching and waiting for the redness in his face to dissipate before venturing into the kitchen. At 48, he'd stopped caring too much about the grey hairs in his beard, but the ones protruding from his nostrils were getting beyond a joke. Due to the immense girth of his fingers, he didn't have the precision of grip required to isolate and remove the silver stragglers. And due to the unnecessarily masculine ideals he'd inherited from his father, he refused to tweezer them unless there was absolutely no one in the house.

"Teddy, baby, I gotta go," Gloria said, appearing in the hallway with a bright smile on her face and a mouth full of waffle, "Big meeting today, wish me luck!"

"Good luck," Ted smiled, planting a peck on her cheek.

Gloria strode out of the door, not noticing but managing to narrowly avoid the puddle of rotten beans as she hopped into her car and drove off down the street. It never seemed to be as much of an effort for her to get through the stiff door as it was for him.

Ted was alone at last, his favourite part of the day, the half-hour just after Gloria left and just before work began. Even with the bean juice clean up, he would at least have silence.

For the first time since waking up, Ted allowed calm to wash over him as he slid on some yellow rubber gloves and, equipped with a dishcloth and carpet cleaning spray, made to tackle the potential stain.

It took way more scrubbing than these things ever did on the adverts, but eventually, the mess of beans was gone, leaving only a small patch of wet carpet which would be dry in no time at all. Satisfied with a job well done, Ted took off the gloves and returned the cloth and cleaner to the cupboard under the kitchen sink.

The final challenge, getting the trash bag to the sidewalk. Easy enough, Ted thought, walking back to the door. He opened it cautiously, peering through to avoid any potential mishaps. The bag sat precisely where he'd left it and aside from some small splashes of bean juice that had leaked from the hole, he was pleasantly satisfied.

Careful to hold the bag rip-side-up, Ted moved tentatively across the porch and down the front steps to the street. And there he was, at the trashcan. He threw the bag inside and clapped his hands together, crisis handled.

Content and ready to start the working day, Ted strolled carefree back up the stairs and across the porch. Something wasn't quite right. Loud music had begun to below from one of the upstairs windows, Dylan was home. The little shit must have snuck past when Ted was throwing out the trash.

Dylan was the apple of Gloria's eye, to listen to her you would think the kid was some kind of honour roll student who could do no wrong. That was, of course, incorrect, Dylan was an asshole. Had Ted not fallen head over heels for Gloria before meeting her charming son, he might have reconsidered the relationship entirely. The teenage terror had just finished high school and become a full-time mooch; he was ignorant, rude, rebellious (not in a charming way) and unforgivably stupid. He spent his days smoking weed and listening to loud music in his room. Gloria was fully capable of ignoring his many faults, but just the idea of being in Dylan's presence sent the vein on Ted's forehead into overdrive.

The kid was currently in a relationship, which meant that he spent most of his time at his girlfriend's house, a reprieve that Ted believed was the reason he'd not cracked and walked out on Gloria altogether. Dylan's presence at home on a Wednesday did not bode well for semi-comfortable workweek Ted had grown used to.

"Dylan, that you?" Ted called up the stairs, politely through the din as he crossed the threshold of the wide-open front door.

No answer, kid probably couldn't hear for the music, Ted thought.

"Dylan!" Ted shouted, louder this time but managing to maintain his cool.

Not receiving an answer, he took a breath and yelled, "Dylan!" at the top of his voice.

The music stopped abruptly. Hair unkempt, face unshaven, clothes unwashed, Dylan appeared on the landing and looked down at Ted, "Dude, no need to  _shout_ , what up?"

"Not, uh, staying at Stacey's today?" Ted asked calmly.

Dylan shook his head, "Nah, bro, we're taking some time to ourselves."

Ted felt a pang of disappointment, "That's a shame, I'm sure you'll work it out."

"Doubt it, bro, she wants me to get a  _job_  and shit," Dylan laughed as if the concept was entirely absurd.

Ted shrugged, "I mean, you  _could_  get a job?"

Dylan slapped his thighs and gave out an exaggerated laugh, "You're funny, man, you're funny."

As the kid turned to walk away, Ted called, "And Dylan; I'm working from home today could you keep the music –"

Dylan's door slammed, and the music resumed. Ted squeezed his fists together and tried to remember some of the exercises Doctor Parker had taught him in anger management. He then remembered that visiting Doctor Parker had been a complete waste of time and money, making him even angrier than before.

Ten years ago, Ted might have choked the life out of Dylan and thought nothing of it, but he was committed to living a normal life. And at least with Dylan back, he knew things couldn't get any worse. This thought gave him comfort for about four seconds, before a frantic knocking at the door interrupted it.

Plastering on a smile, Ted yanked the door open. Stood on the porch was a young man with dark hair and a distinctly over-worn red hoodie.

"Ted Grant?" The young man asked breathlessly.

"Who's asking?" Ted replied, suspiciously.

Smiling awkwardly, he explained, "Name's Roy, Roy Harper, Dinah Lance said you lived around here."

Dinah Lance? That was a name he hadn't heard in a while, "Dinah sent you here, is she in trouble?"

"No, no, she's all good, she says hi," Roy said, pointing over his shoulder, "I hit a weird British guy with my car, but he looks like he'd been attacked before it happened and I don't know how to explain that to a doctor... Dinah said you might be able to help?"

Ted sighed, he could hardly refuse a friend of Dinah's, "Alright, take me to him, quick, we better get him inside before the neighbours see."

"Thanks, man, I owe you one," Said Roy, turning to head down the steps.

The red El Camino, which looked to have been in more than a few fender benders, was poorly parked against the sidewalk. The front of the car was filled with Big Belly Burger wrappers and other food waste, and on the passenger seat was a duffel bag stuffed with clothes and a pretty conspicuous custom compound bow.

Sprawled on the backseat, covered over with his long dirty brown coat, was John Constantine, and all of a sudden, Ted Grant really wished he hadn't opened the door.


End file.
